


Ensnared By Roses

by Aspidities



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sansa, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/F, Margaery is a power bottom on a mission to get that d, Omega Margaery, and Olenna is an enabler, that’s it that’s the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 05:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21156677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspidities/pseuds/Aspidities
Summary: If anyone is going to be the one who breaks up her brother’s marriage before the wedding night, it’s gonna be Margaery.





	Ensnared By Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have excuses for my tags, no, why do you ask?

Margaery was beginning to think the Gods were playing a very prolonged and agonizing joke on her. 

Thrice she’d asked her father for a worthy match. _ Thrice _. She was willing to consider any alpha of highborn descent—particularly the ladies, but the lads were fine as well—and had made that perfectly plain. Several times. 

And what did Mace Tyrell in all his infinite fatherly wisdom do? 

Why, arrange a match for Loras, her younger brother, instead. _ Of course. _

She watched Loras across the hall over the rim of her wine cup. He looked nervous. Undoubtedly, he was. He had been half in love with Renly Barratheon for the better part of two years now, but her father was as blind to that as he was to Margaery’s requests. Renly was a younger son, and so was Loras, so their match would have been a natural course, but not to Mace Tyrell. No, instead he’d decided the only thing that would serve for his son was to be wed to a daughter of the North. 

It was all a miserable sham. Loras wasn’t about to love his new mate. Not when his heart was so deeply promised to another. 

And Sansa….

Margaery took another sip, and watched the Northern alpha morosely pick over her food. She was seated beside Loras, but neither made the effort to get to know one another, which was the point of the banquet. The wedding was in three days, but omega and alpha sat stiffly, looking anywhere but at each other. Margaery sensed the poor girl wanted as little to do with this as Loras did, which meant they had that one sad fact in common. 

Sansa Stark was certainly an eye-catching alpha. Nearly six feet of nervous, ducking energy, pale of face, and paler of demeanor. She looked desperately out of place in Highgarden’s frivolity, with her stiff Northern clothes and cautious manner. Margaery almost pitied her. 

But there were other, lower emotions stirring in her as well. 

Earlier in the day, she’d brushed into Sansa Stark on her way back from hooking a berry tart from the kitchens. Margaery quite liked the kitchens—warm, floury, always full of food, and plenty of gossip from the maidservants that flitted in and out like barn swallows. She had been humming to herself, nibbling away on raspberry cream, when her arm knocked into something solid and decidedly human. Her eyes went up, and up, and up, to meet crinkled blue eyes, reddened around the edges. 

“My Lady Margaery,” Sansa executed a stiff bow. “I...my apologies, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“My apologies as well, Lady Sansa.” Margaery was still taking in the view. Sansa looked like she had been crying. “I wasn’t either.” The tall alpha had pursed lips, and Margaery was struck suddenly by the desire to see them smile. She lifted the half-eaten berry tart. “But this is worth the distractions. Have a taste. I lifted it from a counter.”

She gave her very best rogue’s smile—the one that had caused Harry Hardyng to fall off his horse at the tourney for her brother Garron’s nameday. Sansa Stark didn’t seem entirely immune, either. Her eyes widened as the tart brushed her lips. “I—“

Margaery took the opportunity once the alpha’s mouth was open. She popped the remainder of the tart into Sansa’s surprised mouth, and the alpha had no choice but to bite down. 

“There, isn’t it lovely?” She asked, as innocently as she could manage. Her fingers ghosted over those plump lips, ostensibly brushing away a crumb, but noting with distinct pleasure how the alpha’s scent and breathing changed from her touch. 

Sansa swallowed. Coughed. “It is.” She swallowed again. “I usually prefer lemon tarts, but your Highgarden cooks do seem to know their job.”

Margaery laughed. She threw her head back, but keenly tracked the way Sansa’s eyes watched the unmarked expanse of her long throat. “I shall have them make trays of lemon tarts for you, then!” 

She dared to step a bit closer, and pressed Sansa’s cold hand with her own. “Really, my lady, you shall see Highgarden is quite a welcoming place to creatures from the North. Especially ones such as you.”

Sansa looked mildly stunned for a moment, and then Margaery was favored with the biggest gift yet—a slow, unfurling smile, like a banner across the Stark alpha’s face. “Ones such as me indeed. I... thank you, lady Margaery. But truly, I don’t require lemon tarts to feel welcome. You are welcome enough.” 

The words hung between them, and Sansa seemed to realize what she’d implied only too late because she coughed, hurriedly, and added: “That is, I mean, I am glad to have the welcome of a new sister. My lady.” 

“A sister.” Margaery repeated. One of her eyebrows wanted to rise and so she let it. “Yes. But I do hope we might be closer than that, some day.”

“Close. Yes.” 

Sansa’s eyes dropped down to the open neck of Margaery’s gown. The fashion in the 

Reach was less conservative than the North, to be sure, and Margaery had always favored necklines as open as the fields. She felt the heat of Sansa’s eyes as surely as a firebrand. 

The moment hung on tenterhooks, waiting. Sansa’s eyes drifted up to her lips, and Margaery parted them, softly, in anticipation….

“Ah yes, my little flower, and my lady Stark!” 

_ Curse _ her father for his poor timing. 

Mace was at the top of the hall, wearing some sort of absurdist foppery in green-gold Arbor brocade, and waving his hands at them like clucking chickens. She hated when he called her ‘little flower’. Still, poor bumbling fool that he was, he was still her father and she did love him, so she schooled her expression into pleasant nothingness and stepped away from Sansa Stark. 

She didn’t miss the rustle of the tall alpha’s skirts, twitched away from her groin, nor the fading whisper of pheromones, however. 

Now, in the dark of the evening, as the trestle tables groaned under the weight of the banquet and the hall was filled with song and laughter, Margaery felt more keenly than ever the pang of desire. Sansa had looked at her only once, and the searing heat of her gaze was enough to cut through two servingmen and a dancing bear. Margaery felt it in her bones—the alpha _ wanted _ her. And she wanted Sansa. More sharply, more fiercely than any other alpha she had met here or at court. There was something about the reserved quiet of the Northern girl that called to her, that said _ come find me, ferret me out. I’ll be worth your time. _

She had no doubt that was true, but with the wedding looming ahead, there was little she could do but sip her wine and sit back. It was maddening. Margaery let out a slow, frustrated sigh, and turned to head back to her quarters. Perhaps there was a man-at-arms or lady’s maid amongst the new guests that would serve to tarry out her ardor for a while—although she highly doubted it. 

The heat between her thighs seemed like only something _ cold _ would do for it. 

She almost rammed right into her grandmother as soon as she stepped away from the high table. Lady Olenna often caught people unawares, but seldom her own granddaughter. 

Margaery took her by the shoulders and gave her a once over. “Grandmother! I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t see you—-“

“Because I didn’t want you to.” Olenna responded, primly. “Enjoying the feast?”

“Not particularly.” Margaery’s mouth quirked at the corners. The older omega was her favorite person in the castle and she could always be relied upon for honest conversation. 

“Hmm.” Olenna gave a small smile of agreement. “Loras doesn’t look very happy either.” She observed. “My son is not quite the expert matchmaker that he thinks he is, but then again he is usually not what he thinks he is.”

“No, he’s not.” Margaery’s eyes drifted down and landed on what Olenna was carrying. “Grandmother, why do you have a tray of lemon tarts?”

Olenna lifted a lemon pastry. Her eyes were twinkling and sharp, despite her age. “Oh these? Dreadful things. Far too sugary for my tastes. But they’ll serve.” 

She handed the tray to Margaery, and before she could protest, Olenna was already onto the next topic. “Did I ever tell you, my dear, how I came to wed your grandfather?”

“No…” Margaery could sense this was going somewhere, so she balanced the tray on her hip and waited. 

“He was a fool of a man.” Olenna’s eyes sparkled. “But when he was young—oh, there was an _ alpha _!” She laughed and Margaery joined her; it was impossible not to. “Handsome, strapping lad of four and twenty years, big shoulders and a shock of thick Riverlands hair. You know, dear, how dark they are. Well, he was a sturdy Southron stallion, and I was a lusty little thing, but he was contrived to be wed to my sister.”

Margaery could see where this was going, instantly, but Olenna needed her to play along. The old omega always craved a willing audience. She selected a lemon tart from the tray and took a bite. “So, what did you do?”

“Well.” Olenna’s smile was low and lascivious. “I got ‘lost’ on the way to my bedchamber, the night before the wedding. Hopped on my stallion and took him for quite the ride.”

“I’m sure you did.” Margaery grinned. 

“Oh, I did. I was good. Very, _ very _ good.” Olenna allowed, with a fond chuckle. Her chin tilted back up. “But you, my dear, are better. Here. Take this tray. Go get…. _ lost _.”

“But the feast….” 

Margaery looked back over her shoulder, but the high table was emptying out. Loras had retired, and Sansa was long gone. 

“Is over.” Olenna supplied, firmly. “Once my son is in his cups and singing, no one sticks around long.”

Sure enough, in the corner, Mace was leaning against one of the minstrels and roaring along with _ ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair _’. Margery winced, internally, at the great booming sound. “It appears you’re right.”

When she turned, however, Olenna had already disappeared. The tray of lemon tarts remained in her arms, like a silvered secret. Margaery looked down at the dusting of powdered sugar and candied peels and allowed herself a conspirator’s grin. Her grandmother truly was the best of the Tyrell with any sort of scheming. 

It was a matter of minutes to execute her plan. The tray of lemon tarts rested on her bed while she changed into a night shift that was as nearly-sheer as it was low cut. There was a fine detailing of roses embroidered around the neckline that she thought might be particularly eye-catching. Hefting the tray once more, she departed down the passage to the guest chambers, on bare, padding feet. 

The door twisted open easily and Margaery slid inside, closing it with a soft thud. Sansa sat up in bed. Her hair was unbound—a thick red mane loose against her shoulder, and her skin had a pale, milky glow in the candlelight. 

“Who is it?” Sansa called, uncertainly, and Margaery was thrilled at the way the alpha drew herself firmly upright, eyes sweeping into the dark corners. She stepped into the light. 

“Only me.” The candle’s flickering light played over her and she watched Sansa’s eyes round. She lifted the tray, beguilingly. “I thought you might appreciate a late snack.”

“Lemon tarts.” Sansa breathed out, slowly. “You did promise me a tray.”

“I did.” Margaery laughed, and drew closer, setting the tray on the bedside table. She herself sat next to Sansa, who made room for her on the bed. “I promised to welcome you to Highgarden, did I not?”

“You have been...most welcoming.” Sansa murmured, but her eyes were not on Margaery’s face. Instead, they were trailing over her bared shoulder, and Margaery could feel the heat of her gaze like a caress. She waited, with bated breath, for the Stark alpha to lean forward and kiss her. All the pheromones in the air screamed for it to be so. 

But Sansa blinked, and shook her head, clearly trying to refocus. She cleared her throat. “But, well, it is late, so perhaps….”

Margaery wasn’t going to allow that bluff. “It is late.” She concurred, and crossed the distance between their bodies to lay a firm hand on Sansa’s thigh, just high enough to make her point. “But you are not asleep, nor am I. And there are so many other ways I would _ welcome _ you to my home.” 

“Lady Margaery—“

“Just ‘Margaery’ will suffice, Sansa, dear.” 

“Margaery, then.” Sansa swallowed. She looked from Margaery’s hand to her face like a trapped deer. “I—I can’t, I’m promised to your brother.”

“My brother is two doors down the hall.” Margaery pointed out, primly, even as her fingers curled and uncurled close enough to Sansa’s groin that she could feel the heat emanating from the join of her pale legs. “You could go to him, if you so desire.”

Sansa turned beet red. “I wouldn’t—that’s not….it’s not proper.”

“Is it?” Margaery cocked her head. Her thumb traced a slow pattern just under the hem of the shift. “It would seem proper to me to get to know the body of the omega you will be wed to, would it not?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Sansa licked her lips. There was a hint of whine to her voice. “You know I don’t want to wed him, but…”

“Our fathers insisted upon it.” Margaery supplied for her. Her other hand landed on Sansa’s upper arm, tracing the tensed skin there. “I have a feeling my father may have a change of heart tomorrow, regarding who amongst his omega children he should marry off. Just a hunch.”

“And what would give you that idea?” Sansa’s voice was quite breathy now. Margaery longed to kiss her trembling lips. 

“My grandmother.” Margaery informed her. “The true power behind Highgarden. I have always been her favorite.”

“And what does that have to do with—_ oh _.” Sansa’s voice cut off with wonder as Margaery’s fingers traced up and under her shift, searching up her thigh to raise the light hairs there. 

“She knows I would prefer to wed you instead.” Margaery had always been one to lay things out plainly. “And I would. So tell me, Stark,” she paused to rip her nightshift over her body with careless hands. “Do you prefer your roses wilted and meek, or strong and _ wild _?”

“Gods….” Sansa choked out. Her hands lifted to Margaery’s breasts, but hung, inches away, hovering in mid-air like she thought the omega would disappear if she touched her. Margaery helped her hands make contact with her own, and they both sighed at the feeling. 

She slid into the alpha’s lap, then and finally managed to kiss her. It was thrillingly deep, biting and passionate, with the alpha searching her mouth hungrily, as if she had been waiting as Margaery had. That idea sent shivers of true excitement through her, and in that instant, she grew wet. Wetter than she had been in years. 

Sansa broke from the kiss, panting onto her collarbone, and the omega felt her hands slip down to cup handfuls of Margaery’s ass. That would do nicely. She ground down with her hips, feeling the rising stiffness push against her pelvis through the fabric of the shift, and reached her hands down to pull the hem over Sansa’s head, when the alpha caught her wrist. 

“Do you want this?” Sansa’s eyes searched her own, with sobering honesty. “Truly? Do you want me? You don’t have to do what your grandmother wants, you know.”

Margaery would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so pressed and intimate. Instead, she leaned in to give Sansa a slow, lingering kiss, and pulled away only to pepper her jaw with more kisses. “I want this,” she purred, at last, when the alpha was sighing against her. “I want you. As my mate.”

Those were the words that proved the key. Sansa’s eyes darkened, and she pulled her own shift off her body. Then they were naked and gasping together, kissing and touching and stroking and grinding until Margaery was nearly keening and her senses were heated like coals. 

Somehow, despite Margaery’s eagerness, Sansa was the one who managed to tip her onto her back and crawl over her, laying kisses as she deliberately dragged her cock against the sweat-slick skin below. The omega hadn’t expected this level of expertise from the way the Northern girl had stared and stuttered, and she moaned appreciatively. 

“You are no maid.” She pointed out, faux-accusatory. 

Sansa smiled and bit at her nipple, eliciting a slow gasp. “No,” she admitted, almost shyly. “A stable boy and a girl I knew in town. And you?”

“A few more than that.” The omega confessed, feeling strangely vulnerable and soft with Sansa looking up at her like that. 

“Good.” Sansa told her, and laughed at her surprised lift of eyebrows. “I want you to have plenty of experience to know that you’ve found the best mate, after all.”

Margaery’s mouth dropped open in shock. _ That was good. _Her lower regions tingled in response, but mostly she was impressed at how quickly the alpha had flipped from coy innocence to bravado. 

“Prove it, then.” She challenged, and Sansa’s eyes went dark, as her smile depended. 

Things became very hard to track, after that. 

Margaery ended up gasping into the pillows, half on her belly as the alpha slipped into her from behind, hitching her hip up for a better handhold. Sansa wasn’t as big as some others, but she was thick, and hard and hitting in at _ just _ the right angle. It was marvelous. 

“That’s it,” she moaned her approval as Sansa drove in deep, grunting behind her. “That’s it, my wolf. _ Harder _ , give it to me harder like I know you can, like I know you want— _ ohhh _!”

Sansa had obeyed her commands, with vigor. Her hips snapped up with each word as the omega spoke, and by the time Margaery was encouraging her to go _ harder _ , Sansa was already plunging deep. The alpha put a hand on the back of her neck and snarled _ ‘Mine’ _. And just like that, Margaery went limp and slack and shocked into submission, and the alpha’s cock rammed into her as if it were trying to breach a siege. 

“_ Mine _.” Sansa panted in her ear, hands braced on her neck and the bed as she fucked into Margaery like she was made for it. “You want to be mine, huh? Take it for your wolf like a bitch in heat, then.”

“_ Yes!” _ Margaery had never been spoken to quite so roughly, but it was definitely not unwanted. Her body was shuddering and ripping around Sansa’s cock, and the tears leaking from her eyes were from overwhelming, ecstatic pleasure. “Fill me, knot me, mark me, I’m yours, just, _ please—- _“

Sansa seemed determined to do all of that. She let out something akin to a howl, and lurched forward, latching onto Margaery’s neck where it met her shoulder. The bite was sharp, and deep. The omega cried out in shock at the impact, but her body shuddered and convulsed, and before she knew it, she was coming as the alpha moaned into her bite hold—screaming and shaking like a wanton. 

Margaery hardly had time to draw breath as her pleasure abated, before the next wave was building, building again, because of course the alpha hadn’t slowed her savage pace. And now, whether due to the pheromones swirling around the bed, or her words alone, Sansa’s knot was thick at the base of her cock and swelling, pushing into Margaery with insistence. The shaft trembled, and throbbed, and she knew the alpha was desperate to fill her womb, desperate to knot the omega she’d just claimed. 

Her body wanted that, too. She moaned, and went limp, blossoming open without conscious effort, and the knot nudged inside of her with two or three forceful thrusts. Sansa never let go of her bite hold as she released a triumphant cry into Margaery’s skin, and her cock pulsed and shuddered. Thick, warm spurts filled the omega’s depths, until there was little room for anything else. But she was knotted, filled and sated, so Margaery could hardly complain. 

She closed her eyes, and waited. When the knot was soft, she fully intended on flipping Sansa over, riding her until she broke, and leaving her own mark on the alpha’s neck. Perhaps near her collarbone. She hadn’t decided. 

And, as the night turned into grey dawn, she did just that. And more. 

Mace was a bit bewildered the next morning. He couldn’t seem to figure out why his daughter, with a newly blooming, dark mark on her shoulder, was sitting so close to Sansa, who was beaming back at her with an identical mark on her own neck, but, as usual, he accepted it without comment. Loras, on the other hand, looked positively thrilled, and excused himself as soon as possible to run tell Renly the good news. 

Olenna only smiled and sipped her morning tea. 

****

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Want more? Follow the link in my [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bitterbones87) for updates and prompts and gay bullshittery the likes of which you’ve never seen


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